


We All Bleed Lightish-Red

by CornetHummy



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Depression, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Mild hints of Doc/Donut, Near Death Experiences, POV Second Person, Red vs blue big bang 2017, RvB Big Bang, Stasis Lock, Stream of Consciousness, Suicidal Thoughts, Surreal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-09-26 08:40:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9877130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CornetHummy/pseuds/CornetHummy
Summary: Donut is shot by Washington and lapses into a strange dream, kept alive by his suit's Stasis Mode. From there he encounters an unexpected remnant of the past, ponders the future and the afterlife, and does his darndest to avoid actually feeling a negative emotion.Written for Red vs Blue Big Bang 2017.





	1. Denial is a Cornfield

Your name is Franklin Delano Donut and you’ve just been shot.

Haven’t you?

There are seconds missing from what must have been the end of your life. You remember Simmons angry, frightened, voice choked with tears. And before that, Lopez taking a bullet to the head. (But he’ll be alright, you tell yourself. He can be rebuilt. Sarge can rebuild anything. With more lights and features and an onboard music player!) And between those fragments of memory…

Well, you can put two and two together even if you can’t actually recall the moment itself. Isn’t that for the best? Who wants to dwell on the moment of his death? That’s so gross. It reminds you too much of your goth phase from when you were 14 and still thought the goth clique in school was as nonconformist and welcoming as they claimed.

Your armor is probably going to be an absolute mess to clean out, and you’ve always kept it so spotless. Will they bury you in something nice in a flattering cut and color? Will they follow the instructions in your will to play “Boogie Wonderland” at your funeral to cheer everyone up? Did you actually write up that will? You forgot to save the document, didn’t you? Damn.

Only now, while you think about how you turned off your computer without saving (or lost the nerve to actually save your own living will, because the idea is just so depressing) does it hit you that you are, in fact, dead. Otherwise you’d be in a lot more pain, wouldn’t you? And you’d be reassuring a panicked Simmons, not standing in a cornfield.

Why is Heaven a cornfield?

* * *

You feel like you should be more upset about this. You didn’t want to die. You’ve never wanted to die. Certainly not like that, in the most anticlimactic way possible. You had no time for a final speech, a tearful farewell to Simmons, a last request that Sarge and Grif use your tragic departing as impetus to try to get along better. (They’d bond over shared grief and overcome their differences, and then Red Team would resurrect you with the sheer power of love. You weren’t sure how that last bit would have worked out because you’re more about the ideas than the logistics.)

Or maybe you’d sacrifice yourself for someone you loved, go out in a blaze of beautiful glory. This? This just feels random. Bang bang, they shot you down, as the song goes, only you aren’t still alive for some roaring rampage of revenge against the man who ruined your wedding and stole your daughter.

(Briefly, you consider the possibility that you might still be alive, that you have not yet wandered into the light. But there is no shining light to wander into, which means wherever you are, it’s your final destination. Besides, if you are still alive you might have to deal with what’s happened to you and-)  
Enough of that. Look, fat thunder clouds are gathering and obscuring the chromatic grey sun at the first thought of unpleasantness. Heaven clearly doesn’t like negativity, and neither do you. There’s no crying over spilled blood. No, milk. It’s spilled milk.

Great, now milk is gross to you. How are you going to keep up your bone strength and healthy complexion? Does Heaven have calcium supplements? Will Sarge remember to take his supplements so he doesn’t develop osteoporosis? Did Grif ever take your advice about olive oil hair treatments? Will Simmons take good care of your copy of Jim Henson’s Labyrinth?

No, stop. You are in Heaven, and Heaven is not lonely. You just need to find out where they hand out the adorable wings and halos and find one of those places where the fluffy clouds part and you can wave cutely at all the living people. That way they’ll know you’re alright.

(Of course you’re alright. You want to reassure _them_ , not yourself.)

If you’re honest with yourself, which of course you are because you read a book once about self-deception being unhealthy and you have always, always taken that to heart, you’re really looking for an excuse to leave the part of Heaven that looks like a gray, colorless cornfield stretching out forever. This must be the soothing entrance area for people who, unlike you, are upset about their sudden and unearned deaths. You can see how, to someone else, the rustic rural scenery might have a calming effect, though personally you’d go for a different approach entirely. Calming colors like powder blue and mauve, lavender scented candles, dimmer lighting and maybe some wind chimes or ambient music. In fact, that’ll be your first suggestion to God when you meet with Her. All this silence is so off-putting and empty-feeling. It can’t be that hard to find some rain sounds or gentle meditation music in Heaven. Doesn’t Heaven have spas?

If this is Heaven, that means God exists after all. You were never entirely sure, which you suspect God is alright with. But in order to combat patriarchal norms you’re going to refer to God as a She.

It is by coincidence that this particular section reminds you of Iowa, very unfortunate coincidence. You don’t want to think about Iowa, so you won’t. Instead you stand up, still wearing your lightish-red armor because it feels comfortable, and start marching forwards. If you weren’t meant to go in that direction you wouldn’t have woken up facing it. Everything happens for a reason, _except this_ stop.

The corn stalks bend as if under a powerful gust of wind, but you don’t feel it. That’s weird. Is it going to be like that forever? Spas are going to be pretty underwhelming if you can’t feel the massages.

In fact, that’s what’s missing. You can see, better than you have since the grenade, but there are no sounds or sensations. Yet you feel yourself breathing. Isn’t it odd how you’re always breathing but never notice or think about it until it’s brought to your attention? And here you are, fully aware of your own breath when in fact you probably aren’t breathing at all.

Heaven is weird and you’re not sure you like it yet. The ghastly lack of color at least matches how Sarge described his near-death experience. Sarge also told you, on one of those late nights when he felt like telling the same four or five stories over and over to alleviate the boredom of Red Base, that he’d encountered an angel who looked and sounded suspiciously like Church. There’s no Church here. Which, in a way, is a relief. You don’t know Church very well. What would you two talk about? You pride yourself in your ability to get on the good side of just about anyone, but if Heaven is full of angels who are like Church you’re going to have to listen to an awful lot of complaining and shouting.

Just like old times!

But what if all the angel Churches know that you’re Red Team and want to start up old feuds? Church was, at least at one point, the leader of the Blues. You think. No one could quite keep straight what went on with them except that Church and Tucker always seemed to be going through some kind of extended break-up with each other, and the one lady who almost killed you the first time was pretty scary. And well, it isn’t that you lack Red Team pride at all. Not in the least! You wear your very, very obviously _red_ armor that currently looks greyish without reservations. But an entire army of Blue angels versus you? That would just be unfair!

You realize as your thoughts wander that you’ve been marching through this cornfield for quite some time and the landscape hasn’t exactly changed much. You passed a rickety old wooden house once and made a point not to look at it. Up on the horizon you think you see a blot that, after another five minutes of wandering, reveals itself to be the same house.

“...Okay,” you finally say and then stop short, as the sound of your own voice is the first noise you’ve heard in Heaven. It echoes. “Oh, hey, nice! Echo! Marco! Polo!...ahem. Hey, God?” You tilt your head upwards, cupping your hands around your mouth despite wearing a helmet with a speaker.

There is no answer.

“Um, are you there? I know you’re probably busy. Should I be calling you Goddess? Anyway, I know you have mysterious ways and all but this puzzle is really starting to throw me off! Is there some secret exit from this level?”

All you get in return is a puff of wind and another house-shaped blot on the horizon. Somehow, despite the fact that you’re passing that old farmhouse, the blot up ahead looks like the exact same building.

If Heaven is trying to steer you into that thing, they haven’t figured out how stubborn you are. You’ll stick with the field, thanks.

“Okay, uh, this is nice! Surrealism. Never really my thing, although I like that one painting with the melting clocks and all. But, um, if I’m being honest here? This isn’t exactly what I expected out of Heaven. Where are the fluffy clouds and harps? Do you want me to wear a toga? Because if so, I certainly wouldn’t mind. I mean, I’d look pretty great in one.”

Nothing. The door to the old house swings open and closed.

“Actually,” you add, your voice losing its volume as unease creeps into it, “not gonna lie here? This is pretty eerie. I mean, the lack of color is really off-putting. It kind of reminds me of-” You stop. “Wait. Wait, I get it now. It’s the Wizard of Oz, right? I mean, that started in Kansas, not in Iowa, but I guess for all I know this might be Kansas! So you’re just waiting to bring me to Heaven and show off all that bright Technicolor and let me wear some stunning emerald green. That’s adorable, God! I didn’t know you were a fan of that movie.”

The stalks are bending over harder and faster now. The sun is rapidly being obscured by colorless, dark clouds. And you remember just how The Wizard of Oz did, in fact, start.

“...Uh, hey.” You force the unease out of your voice, because you don’t want to hurt God’s feelings. “I like the Wizard of Oz as much as the next guy, but what about if we skip the part with the twister? I was never really fond of those.”

_hide in the bathtub, hold your hands over your head, just remember you’ll get out of here someday and space colonies don’t have tornadoes_

“Really,” you add as the sky dims, “it’s totally fine if we just jump ahead to me crashing in Oz and a bunch of adorable Munchkins singing about how I murdered some lady’s sister and got gorgeous shoes out of it. I won’t even question why the afterlife is actually just an old MGM movie. And maybe you’re doing this for me, like your entrance to Heaven comes through something you liked as a kid! Like Sarge’s was going to be some big war movie, and Grif was going to get Ninja Turtles!” The more you think about it, the more charming the idea is. You’re not so warm on the execution. “I really appreciate it, but uh…”

The stalks bend almost vertically in the wind that is blowing around you, the wind you can’t feel. But you can hear, and what you hear is the first sound that isn’t your own voice. There’s a roar, not a lion’s roar but something deep and ancient all around you. It mingles with the slight whirring and humming of armor, a hissing and growling, and a click. The click of a reloading pistol. And there’s shouting in that maelstrom too. You know that voice, don’t you?

_How could you do that? What’s wrong with you!?_

“Don’t make me look,” you beg the void, and yet you turn and look anyway. Just for a moment, because you can never really avoid looking, can you?

It’s a wall, a cylindrical wall of darkness and debris, wind so powerful it seems to warp the air around it and twist the landscape into rippling shapes. But you know what that is. That’s not the part that’s hard to look at, is it? No, there’s glints of gunmetal and yellow highlights and the chromatic shine of a visor you can see yourself in before he-

* * *

_You are very briefly aware of darkness punctuated by flickering emergency lights, the red bleeding and shimmering in your view. It’s kind of beautiful, but you’re in no condition to appreciate it. You remember pain as you know for a fraction of a second what a gunshot wound to the stomach feels like._

_Then you forget again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Illustration for this chapter done by the fantastic Gaveremy on Tumblr: http://gaveremy.tumblr.com/post/157588791863/my-part-of-the-rvb-big-bang-for-cornetwrites-fic


	2. Anger Makes For a Lousy Date

All that and you don’t even wake up in Oz.

At least there’s color and sound this time. If you weren’t so sensory-starved you’d think there was an excess of it. All around you colored lights flicker on and off, illuminating the lush reds and golds of the fall leaves. To your left the speakers blare country western, which is only tolerable because it’s better than silence (and on some days you would debate that). Behind you the pipe organ booms as the carousel starts up again, the painted horses and jeeps pumping up and down without riders. The moon hangs low in the sky, a lightish-red harvest moon as perfectly round as the rainbow ferris wheel towering above the fair.

You want to ride that ferris wheel. Is that why you’re here at the fair? It certainly can’t be for the amusement park food. Anything deep fried makes your stomach turn and cotton candy looks a lot nicer than it tastes. The sickeningly sweet smell of frying oil and sugar permeates the air. (Doesn’t it? You don’t exactly smell anything but feel it’s there somehow. And it’s disgusting!) 

No, that’s not why you’re here. If you wanted to go on a ferris wheel by yourself, you’d already be there. You’re waiting for someone. You have been for some time, you realize as you glance impatiently at your watch. Here you are, all dressed up as nicely as would be appropriate for a place like this and your date is late. You aren’t even sure this is a date. What if he just wants to hang out?

That’s why you’re here, remember? 

You’re two seconds away from calling it, marching off and buying a bottle of wine to take back with you to Red Base when he shows up. You didn’t hear or see him approach; he just stepped out from behind a shooting gallery booth. He’s wearing all black, a silk shirt with a silver tie and long, smart slacks. By coincidence, it’s the exact outfit you’re wearing, except you’re all in light red and white. 

He also has your face, hair and body. He looks exactly like you.

“...Well,” you say, not sure why this doesn’t surprise you more. “One of us is going to have to go back home and change.”

“Shut up, fool,” your date says, his voice just a little lower than yours and with far more of an edge. He twirls a curl around his finger. “I wear it much better.”

“Well, black is pretty flattering. But I wanted to keep up team spirit even in my civvies, you know?” You stand up, dusting yourself off. “So, I’m on a date with my clone or something. Or my evil twin. Or my shadow! That’s really Freudian. Or is it Jungian? Or narcissistic? Is it narcissistic to think I look really cute if I’m taking myself out, or is that just being flirty?” 

The other you snorts, gesturing for you to follow without taking your offered hand. “I am not your clone or your evil twin, thank wickedness for that. I go to all the trouble of interrupting your ‘stood up on a date’ dream and you don’t even recognize me?” 

“Um, I’m pretty sure I recognize myself,” you point out. “Unless you’re Donut now and I’m suddenly someone else?”

“...What?” Your date stares at you.

“It’s been a very weird day,” you sigh. 

But as you look at this other you whose green eyes are colder, whose mouth is turned in a permanent sneer and whose stride is more forward and aggressive than yours is at your worst, it jogs a sense of familiarity. You’ve never seen this person before, but you’ve felt him. He’s a racing pulse, an adrenaline spike and a sudden rush of every little bothersome problem magnified a thousandfold. You don’t experience that now when you look at him, but you remember it.

“...O’Malley!?”   
  
“Who else would be here at the moment of your  _ doom _ ? Ahahahaaa~!”” When he speaks through your slightly distorted voice, O’Malley’s evil laugh sounds a little musical in a ‘show-stopping Disney villain song’ kind of way. You suspect he always did want to perform a villain song, but all he had for backup was Lopez. 

“But my doom already happened. I died,” you remind O’Malley now that you suddenly recall it again yourself. “This is probably some kind of afterlife adventure nobody told me about in Sunday School or those shows run by psychics. Which must be why you’re here, right? Because you’re gone too.”

O’Malley gives you a strange look, staring at you and blinking. Whatever it is confusing him, he drops it quickly as he grabs a bag of cotton candy without paying for it. The vendor doesn’t protest because he isn’t there. This isn’t a very crowded carnival, or even a populated one. 

“Then perhaps I’m here to gloat at your  _ doom _ .” He stuffs a tuft of cotton candy into his mouth without offering you any. Not that you wanted it, but that’s a terrible way to act on a date. “Shouldn’t you tell me why I’m here? You’re the one who invited me.” 

“I did not! Did I? I did...?” You try thinking back to where you were before you arrived here. There was a cornfield, and...well, it’s fuzzy. “What are you doing in Heaven, anyway? You’re a bad guy. A self-declared bad guy!”

“This isn’t Heaven! I hope not, anyway. Heaven sounds so...nice.” O’Malley shudders. “Ick. And before you say anything, it isn’t Hell either. You would think Hell would be a lot more entertaining! And have actual people in it.” 

You don’t even consider the possibility that it might be Hell, and you never have. You’re not sure you believe in Hell, and if you don’t believe in a place they certainly wouldn’t want you there. Or well, you wouldn’t if you were them. 

You step on crunching fall leaves as you walk past a tilt-a-whirl. “Well, sorry I don’t remember inviting you. I’m not even sure what’s going on with me. I figured you were another test I have to pass before I, uh, I don’t know. Go wherever. Walk into the light.” Nevermind how you aren’t sure if you passed the first one. “Or maybe this is robot Heaven and I’ve been an AI the whole time without even knowing it! Can you imagine?”

O’Malley stares at you again like he’s about to say something, holding up a finger. “...Nevermind. No, you are not a robot!”

“It would explain all those other times I almost died but survived. I mean, I figured after that ship landed on me I’d be a goner. And after that fall? All my bones should have been broken, but I was fine! I figure either I’m a robot, or I’m extremely lucky.”

“Were. Were lucky.”

“Y-yeah,” you say, laughing it off even though you don’t want to talk about your life in the past tense like that. “And hey, maybe that guy just really hated robots! So that’s why he shot Lopez and…”

The lights flicker and dim all around you before flaring up again. You hear someone with a Southern accent shouting about a ‘brief power failure, nothing to worry about.’ You can’t make out the rest except for something about blaming Grif.

“Dammit, I don’t want to think about that guy right now! O’Malley, I don’t know why we’re going out like this, but while we are we should at least have fun. And right now, I want to ride that ferris wheel.” You point ahead of you to the great wheel, its neon lights dancing in serpent patterns. 

O’Malley turns away. “Forget it. I do not have fun. Fun is not angry or intimidating. And besides, that ride is boring. What about the roller coaster?”

“I am not throwing up in my own afterlife dream. And sure, you might be an aggression-oriented AI, which isn’t a very healthy thing to be, but I’m sure even you can enjoy yourself sometimes. We’re the only company we have right now. You know how that song goes. _ And if you can’t be with the one you love, darling, love the one you’re wi- _ ”

“FINE. Fine, let’s go on the accursed ferris wheel! But only if we cut ahead of everyone in line.” O’Malley falls back next to you again, sulking with every muscle in his (your) beautiful, scarred face. “But no singing. And no el-o-vee-ee! It isn’t that kind of date! And you’re not my type.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course! I was just joking.” You have to admit, seeing O’Malley act so childish and bratty is kind of adorable. He’s fun to tease when he’s not trying to destroy the world. “Everyone’s always so insecure. I mean sheesh, not like I’m gonna make out with myself. That would be Jungian. I mean Freudian. I mean weird.”

* * *

 

O’Malley sulks across from you in the little metal booth with the chipped red paint as the ferris wheel makes its slow turns, moving as if its loading passengers even though no one else is climbing aboard. No one else is in line, or walking around the fair, or running it at all. 

It’s just you and him. Too bad he’d hardly be your ideal date or conversation mate even if he didn’t look almost exactly like you.

Almost. He’s a mirror-image of you, which you realize means his features are flipped from yours. That pink scar spreads like a web across the other eye, which means that must be his bad eye. You wonder if he hears ringing in the other ear. He has that hairstyle you chose after the grenade incident, when you decided _screw it, I almost died and I’m going to give myself the cut I always wanted,_ bleached and shaved on the scarred side where hair hardly grows anyway and long curls falling over the other. Oh, and instead of the red streak you dyed in for Team Spirit (a decision Sarge not only lauded but demanded of the others to little success) O’Malley has a streak of silver. It’s not a good look on him. 

And considering how it felt to have him possess you for that short time, how every filter you had against all that frustrated and angered you shattered like the crunchy part of creme brulee, he’s being awfully quiet. It’s like he’s waiting for you to speak first. Maybe it has something to do with his claim that you invited him, though you’re sure you didn’t.

“...So. Um.” What is there to talk about? You doubt he’s some kind of guide through the afterlife who could actually answer questions, or if he is he’s doing a terrible job. And you know you have this habit of oversharing, blurting everything about yourself until people don’t want to hear from you. You don’t mean it. You just wish everyone else was that open. So this time, you try asking about him.

“So! Um,” you repeat, “I’m a little surprised to see you here. You know, since you only occupied me for about two minutes max. And from what I remember of the debriefing, which admittedly isn’t much, you jumped back into that Tex lady. And then her ship took off and...well, I’ll be honest, I didn’t pay attention to the rest. They were reassigning all of Red Team to different bases and I was a little depressed, alright?” You peer out the window at the glittering, empty carnival below. “Can you blame me? But that’s what I’m wondering. How can you be here, with me, in the afterlife, if you left with Tex and you’re an AI?”

“Ah, yes! That.” O’Malley smiles like the Grinch in that one scene (you know the one) and chuckles. “It’s quite simple. Every time I enter a host, I leave a little bit of myself behind out of spite. Scarring of the mind, if you will. A presence that makes it impossible for anyone to forget me and the wrath and malice I represent. Even  _ they  _ didn’t know I did that,” he adds, without elaborating on who  _ they  _ are. “Just wait until that spineless medic finally hits his limit…” His expression softens into confusion. “I started trying it with that Caboose guy. My presence affected him in...unexpected ways.”

“Caboose is the nice one, right?”

He ignores your question. “So I’m not the ‘real’ O’Malley, just your memories of him, if memories could talk and had their own vague sense of identity.” He pauses for effect. “EVIL identity!”

You’re not sure if that makes sense to you, but you’re not an AI. Probably. “But you were only in my head for a really short time, like I said. And I didn’t exactly feel any different after you left. Kind of relieved because I hate being mad, even when it’s justified. It’s so stressful!”

“That’s exactly why I didn’t stay long! So little to work with. And frankly what I left behind was practically insignificant. Except something’s woken me up and activated me. Something awful no doubt.” O’Malley stares directly at you. “I’m here because you’re angry!”

“No I’m not,” you say, because you’re pretty sure you’re not. Are you? You sure don’t feel angry. “I-wait. O’Malley, is that what you meant when you said I ‘invited’ you? Were you being all cryptic? That’s adorable!”

O’Malley recoils and blushes at the same time. “My hosts affect me. From you I seem to have picked up a flair for the theatrical. And a sense of disgust at what chauvinist pigs your fellow soldiers are.”

“Aren’t they, though!? I mean I love them, but sometimes they are just so juvenile! Were. Are. I mean, without me, I guess.” You look back out at the nice view. Something is telling you not to look out the other window, the one that overlooks something else. “And it felt good to vent about that for once. But I think you’ve made a mistake. I’m not angry.”

“What’s so bad about a little rage? It’s healthy! It’s a natural response to being  _ wronged _ .” O’Malley steeples his fingers like a movie villain. He really does have a flair for the theatrical. “Let me tell you a little about what I am. I’m not just rage. I’m someone  _ else’s  _ rage.” 

“...You mean your host’s rage, right?” 

“Not just that! I know, somehow, that I exist because something hideous was done to someone else. I keep losing touch of what it was every time I jump, but it’s there. Someone was wronged and couldn’t accept hating the people who wronged them, so they shunted all of it into a corner to  _ protect  _ those people.” He spits the word ‘protect’ like an epithet. “And all that hatred and spite became me. I remember hating the thing that created me for it, and the people who wronged...him? And all the other beings like me who didn’t share my anger, and the humans who thought I could be a weapon for them. And I hated the entire universe for being the sort of place that would create me. And I hate every single one of my hosts for being able to experience all sorts of disgusting emotions, for warping me in little ways.” 

“...Whoa. Okay, that’s kinda heavy,” you admit. “You wanna, uh, talk about it?”

“What do you think I’ve been doing, you imbecile!? I’m only talking it out with you because I’m part of you, and you care about communication or whatever. You overshare, so when I’m you, so do I.” He crosses his arms. “I can barely remember what I want to avenge anymore. That means my anger can never die out. I’ll never find satisfaction out there, not the ‘real’ me. But the one in here? I’m part of you, so I suppose I’m mad on your behalf.” 

“You don’t need to be,” you protest weakly. “I’m not-I mean, yeah, I was wronged, but…” The lights flicker. No, you said you wouldn’t think about that. “Besides, you said you hated your hosts. That has to include me.”

“I do, oh I do. Right now I hate you for denying yourself, because that’s denying me. I want you to face exactly how cruel and senseless your fate was, to hate your enemy who you can never reach again, so you’ll know exactly what it’s like to go without rest or satisfaction.” He’s looking you directly in the eyes now, and you can’t look away. “Unless you think it’s right what happened to you? Unless you don’t care about your own life? I thought you valued yourself, Donut…”

“Stop.” You shut your eyes and cover your face so he can’t see tears forming in your eyes. Why are you crying? He’s full of crap, isn’t he? He’s just an evil AI. 

“You know that’s why I couldn’t get much of a hold on you? I very nearly took Simmons. I came so close to finding a new host, because Simmons has so much repressed spite and longing. There’s nothing quite like a host who hates himself. But you? You’d accepted yourself. You were proud of who you were. All that genuine positivity is revolting to me. If I’d stayed, I’d have done my best to undermine it. Now? I’m not sure how genuine it was, because you won’t even let yourself be unhappy about your death.”

“Because there’s no point in it! I don’t want to be angry forever! There’s nothing I can do about that guy. I don’t even know who he is. I’m a soldier, you know? I could have been shot and killed by anyone at any time.” Outside, you hear thunder rumbling. “And if I do dwell on it, it isn’t going to change anything. It’s not like I can rise from the dead and throw a grenade at this guy. Of course I don’t think it was right! Of course I’m…upset.” 

O’Malley looks at you for a long time, seems to stare right through your soul. “You are an idiot,” he finally states. “You know you’re not dead, right?”

You  stare at him. “What?” You wipe your eyes. “Now you’re outright lying to get a rise out of me. I had no idea you were so petty.”

“I’m not lying! Remember how I said I’m just a remnant in your mind? That’s how I know you have brain activity. Synapses firing off. You’re  _ dying _ , to be sure of it. Your armor’s emergency lockdown mode is a fickle thing, poorly designed and implemented. Most of the time it doesn’t even activate when it should, which is why the sim trooper program has such a notoriously high fatality rate. But yours is kicking in, which is why you’re still breathing even while your insides slowly ooze out of your gunshot wound. All over your beautiful, clean armor.” 

_ Eww. _

“So what you mean is, I’m not dead yet.” You don’t want to concede anything to O’Malley right now. You’re mad as hell! At him and how poorly this literal dream date is going, nothing and nobody else. “I mean, it’s nice to imagine some medic in shining armor will come to the rescue, or that Simmons will save me, but I don’t really have a lot of confidence. Realistically, if it was going to happen it would have by now, right?”

He snorts again. “You’re going in an awful lot of circles trying to avoid any sort of negativity. Sure, easy to say you’re doomed, so there’s no point feeling bad about it. For all you know, there’s nothing after actual death. Once the last brain cell has fizzled out you’ll just cease to be.”

He might be telling the truth about living in your head if he knew that gut fear of yours, the idea that the end really is the end of everything. You wince and hate how he smirks when you do. He’s winning this odd power struggle you never wanted to have in the first place.

“But what if you don’t actually die? What if you wake up after all? And he’s still out there, because no one could be bothered to avenge you. What if he killed Simmons too? What about Lopez? Sure he can be rebuilt, but he certainly didn’t deserve what he got, did he?”  
  
“...No,” you admit, voice shaking. “I mean, it must be different for a robot. But I doubt he liked that. Lopez never did anything to that guy. Neither did I. But if I wake up, I’d just want to be happy. Just be glad I survived another near-death experience. It’s proof that I’m lucky. I’m lucky!”

“Will you be able to look him in the eyes and say that? That you forgive him because he showed you how  _ lucky  _ you were?”

“I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT HIM!” As you shout, your voice echoes through the carnival. All the lights go out except for those on the spinning wheel, leaving the ground beneath you a silent void. 

This outburst even seems to surprise O’Malley, who goes wide-eyed for a moment before settling back into a less sincere-looking smirk. “Ha. Knew I get under your skin.”

“And I’m not going to talk about him,” you add. “This is my dying dream, or whatever it is. Not yours! You can’t tell me how to feel, O’Malley. If these are my last moments, my life flashing before my eyes or something silly like that, I want to enjoy them. And if I do wake up, I’ll…”

You aren’t sure. Instead you find yourself looking out the other side of the cabin, to the window you pointedly ignored before.

You can’t make out the ground, though somehow you know it’s that damned cornfield again. But above it is the clearest sky you’ve ever seen. A huge harvest moon hangs amid stars its light should be drowning out; instead it seems to lend its brightness to them. How can you be angry on a night like this? Even if it’s not real? Whatever state your brain is in right now, at least it’s capable of some beautiful dreams.

Except…

“Wait. I know this night. I remember this now.”

“Oh, great. Now you’re going to tell me about-”

You hold up a hand. “Shh. You had your turn, now I talk. My dream.” 

It seems to work, surprisingly. Maybe he just likes seeing you assert yourself.

“I had just had the worst day at school. I don’t even remember what I was mad about, but I was furious. And I had this friend. He wasn’t really my friend at all, you know? Kind of a bully who tricked you into thinking he was being nice with his bullying. But I didn’t realize it at the time. So I said I needed a night off, and the fair was in town. It was the only thing that ever happened around there! And I guess I could have gone by myself, but I didn’t want to look weird. I cared way too much about that back then. Never really stopped caring until...Blood Gulch. Huh.” You shake your head. “Anyway, he agreed to meet me there and never showed. Messaged me an hour later saying he’d gone with some other kids to get drunk. So I went, you know what? Screw it, I’m going to have fun tonight! And I’m gonna go on that ferris wheel! By myself! This ferris wheel, I guess.”

Your eyes wander to those stars. “I don’t know what I thought I saw in it. It was just a creaky old piece of equipment. Probably a deathtrap. And while I sat on it, I started thinking...things. Stuff I don’t want to dwell on, not now, not with you. About how far up I was. And stuff.” You close your eyes. “And when I realized I was having those...thoughts, I knew I had to get out of this town. Off of this planet, even. Going to somewhere, not running from it. Those stars were calling me. And there were all those posters about the war, trying to recruit people right out of high school to fight for the UNSC.” 

O’Malley doesn’t interrupt you. Is he actually listening? He looks irritated at you having scolded him. Go figure; people who want you to stand up for yourself always mean ‘but not to me.’

“Something about it just appealed to me. It’s hard to explain. I think everyone expected me to go to theater school, but it’s so expensive without a scholarship. And I wanted to be a part of something. I wanted to see those stars, fight those aliens, maybe make friends with nicer aliens! So after I graduated and went through all the test physicals and basic training…”

“They assigned you to Blood Gulch in the middle of nowhere!” O’Malley cackles triumphantly.

“Exactly! And it was great! I captured the flag on my first day there. The flag! They didn’t even tell me I was supposed to do that! And I started bonding with the other guys on Red Team, and we had adventures, and I helped decorate the base, and sure I almost died a few times. It was a war! I even got real soldier scars.” You run a hand over the one on your face. “And you know what else? I started to realize after a while I didn’t really have to hide what kind of person I was. Or after the grenade, I just forgot to bother. Everyone on Red Team teases each other no matter what, and yeah, they’re kind of jerks sometimes. But none of them tried to change me. They were just like, ‘well that’s just Donut.’ Just like how we’d say ‘well that’s just Grif’ if he slept through a meeting. I mean, it wasn’t perfect, but I had fun. We traveled through time and space and fought villains and Freelancers and you!” You pause. “No offense.”

“Not at all. I take great pride in myself as a villain.”

“And there’s some stuff I’d change. I wish the guys would loosen up a bit and be happier with themselves, and stop caring so much about what others think. Sarge ought to be nicer to Grif, Grif and Simmons should just kiss already, and while I’m making a wishlist, it’d be nice if Red Team got a cute recruit with glasses who liked long walks on the beach and discussing fine literature. You know, as another friend! But man, I was so much happier than I had been on Earth. I really liked being on Red Team.”

The stars dim. Something’s bubbling up inside of you, hot and acidic, like a shaken soda bottle. A warmed shaken soda bottle? 

“And he took it from me. He tried to take that all away from me.” No, you decide, it’s not like that at all. It’s volcanic. It’s deeply unpleasant and you hate it, but there it is. Cracks form in the sky, white light streaming through. 

“For nothing, for nothing at all. He didn’t even  _ know  _ me…”

The  sky shatters. There’s no other word for it. It breaks open like glass into shards, falling all around you. You can hear O’Malley laughing, or saying something; you can’t make it out over the sound of everything breaking. The carnival vanishes as everything is flooded with glaring red light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically I wanted a fic about the whole "Wash shot Donut" thing that dealt with, you know, Donut's feelings on the matter. Then I started experimenting with second person POV for the first time and stream of consciousness style, and the result was whatever this is. Hope you like it so far!  
> More chapters coming next week! Stay tuned!


	3. Inaccurate Memories are a Bargain

No. You’re fine. Or you’ll be fine.

There are shards of sky all over the ground. You step on one and it breaks under your feet with a satisfying crunch. It doesn’t hurt. You’re wearing boots.

See? You’ll just cry it out and then spring back like you always do. You’re Donut, and you leave misfortunes behind. You walk over them. Remember that promise you made then.

Here, waiting in line at the UNSC recruitment center.

Okay. Your dying brain is replaying images from your memories, though warped. That explains everything so far. And now you’re reaching the good memories. You liked this day. And if this is your dying dream, you’re going to remember it the best, most rose-tinted way possible.

(You’re just a little upset. _Not angry._ )

So maybe this recruitment center in the middle of the city is a lot brighter and in better condition. It’s the middle of July, so they’re passing out glasses of cucumber water to the would-be recruits in the queue that wraps around the building. The city itself is prettier too, with passerby smiling and waving at you as they go about their business and Christmas lights twinkling in the trees at every corner.

...Wait. Wasn’t it July?

Fuck it, you said you were going to remember this in the happiest way possible. If you have to go through some kind of ‘This Is Your Life, Donut’ sequence, you can have some influence on it, right? And in your heart it’s Christmas in July on the first day of the rest of your life, when you reach for those stars. The beginning of your story.

And now you know the ending.

Well, maybe not. Sure, O’Malley mentioned you were technically still alive to demoralize you, which in retrospect is really, really weird, but made sense at the time. You could wake up after all of this. It’s happened before. And it never bothered you so much before, so why let it now? O’Malley has you wrong. Underneath your effervescent yet efficient soldier exterior, you’re at peace with yourself.

“Or you can be,” says the recruitment officer. Whoa, how did you get to the front of the line? Dreams are so odd sometimes.

Like how the recruitment officer is Sarge. He wasn’t originally, you’re pretty sure of that. Spotty as your memory can be sometimes, you know the first time you met Sarge was at Blood Gulch. But your subconscious, finally listening to you about Thinking Positively, has replaced the bored bureaucrat at the desk with a grinning, helmeted Sarge. You know he’s grinning because of the tone of his voice.

“Glad to have ya, Donut!” He grabs your hand and shakes it with full force. “I’m here to help ya balance out your mixed emotions. So you can achieve stability. Like me! Stable as a continent.”

You’re not entirely sure about that, or about Sarge’s knowledge of plate tectonics, but you’re not going to be rude to him! Besides, it’s so heartwarming how your brain is manifesting your C.O. to...stabilize you?

“Oh thank goodness,” you say, and mean it. “I’ve been in such a weird place these past few, uh, hours? Days?”

“Don’t ask me,” Sarge says with a shrug. “I’m just your brain. You’re bad at keeping time.”

“I like to think of myself as fashionably late. But boy, I can’t wait to feel better about all this and move on from it.” You pause. “I mean, move on psychologically! I don’t mean ‘move on’ from this world. That sounded kind of grim, huh?”

“Nonsense! You wanna get yourself in order and your emotions under control no matter what happens,” Sarge declares as he starts leading you through a steel-liked hallway. You realize after a few minutes you’re no longer dressed in street clothes, but in the off-red armor you deployed with. How nostalgic.

“Yeah, that’s why we’re here, I guess.” Grif is walking alongside you now, slouching because he still doesn’t care about proper spinal posture even when you’re imagining him. “Get you to chill out.”

“And bottle up all your negativity again to put it in a nice, dark corner,” Simmons adds cheerfully. “So you can be the Donut we know and love again!”

“Uh, thanks, guys!” They’re talking like it’s a positive thing, so it must be. Besides, it’s not really them. It’s you, talking to yourself. You trust yourself! You have good ideas most of the time.

And whatever they’re saying, even if they’re fake, you ought to at least listen to it. You aren’t certain how you feel. You will never get used to that. And you want to be certain when you wake up (or don’t.)

Sarge marches along up ahead. “If I recall, this isn’t even your first near-death experience!”

“Right!” you say. “Like with Tex and that grenade. Ho boy, that was kinda scary!” You still get ringing headaches and can’t hear as well out of that ear. “Come to think of it, why wasn’t I angry back then? Wait, no, I was. I was pissed! And then I made the best throw ever and got her good!”

You pause. “And then she hung out as a ghost for a while. It seemed silly to hold a grudge at that point.”

“There ya go!” Simmons snaps his fingers. “You just have to kill Agent Washington if you see him again. That way you’ll both be even.”

“Right!” You stop. “Wait, no! I don’t want to do that. Killing Tex didn’t really help. I mean, it isn’t like it made my hearing any better. And I don’t quite follow everything that happened after, but I get the impression it just made things more complicated.”

“Nah, I’m with you, Donut,” Grif says. He’s holding Simmons’s hand because in your mind they’ve finally gotten over themselves and eloped in Vegas Quadrant. “Revenge? Way too much work. Holding grudges? Not worth it, unless you’re Sarge. Who, regardless of the outcome, will totally use this as fuel against the Blues.”

“Always knew he was Blue in the soul,” Sarge mutters, referring to Washington.

“Right! I’ll just forgive and forget.” You exhale, trying to feel relieved by your decision. Except you don’t; there’s still a tightness in your chest that you suspect is not the gunshot wound. “But is that really fair to me? I don’t hate myself. Certainly didn’t deserve what happened to me. At least with Tex I could think, well, she’s on Blue Team! She had to get the flag back. I mean, obviously.”

“Exactly! That was the glorious near-death of a soldier fighting for the Red Team Cause! Which is, uh…” Sarge trails off. “Donut, you don’t know what the Red Team cause is, so neither do I.”

“I’m sure it doesn’t matter,” Simmons adds.

“As opposed to this, where some fancy Freelancer mother hubbard just shot ya! To make a point!”

That last bit throws you off, and you stop walking through the seemingly endless metallic hallway. “Make a point? What kind of point could he possibly make by shooting me?”

“To intimidate me, of course! I’m Red Team’s resident tech genius,” Simmons declares. “And he didn’t shoot me.”

“That I saw,” you note. “I heard you calling out for me. Which is so sweet, Simmons! But for all I know he shot you after…”

Simmons turns to stare at you, panic in his visor. Somehow. “Wait, you’re right! You have no idea if I even made it out alive. For all you know he shot me in the head and I’m not even in a conflicted dream coma! This is awful!” He holds his head as his form distorts, twists and vanishes into nothingness.

“Oh god, Simmons! I know I pretend not to care about what happens to anyone, but I’m gonna be so upset when I find out you’re gone! And Donut too! Cuz underneath my exterior of not-giving-a-fuck, I actually give a lot of fucks!” Grif follows suit, melting into an orange pile of anxious goo and disappearing.

“And if I’m the only Red left, I’ll have to avenge you! All of you, with Blue blood! My hypermasculinity will drive me to an unnecessary suicide run!” Somehow, even as he distorts, warps and disappears into a burst of flame, Sarge sounds a little too happy about that.

You stare at where your friends were as the hallway starts twisting and rippling before and behind you, the buzzing in the vents becoming ever louder until it drowns out anything else, even the sound of your own voice.

Except this is your mind, and nothing is going to drown it out.

“NO! Stop.” You stomp your foot. “Reset. Do over. Let’s-let’s assume Simmons didn’t die, okay…?”

Sarge, Grif and Simmons don’t exactly fade back in so much as reappear exactly the way they were before, the hallway now only a little wobbly and bumpy and the buzzing in the vents softer. They don’t seem to remember you accidentally doing whatever it was you did there.

“But,” Simmons asks, “why would he go to all the trouble of shooting you and Lopez and leave me alive?”

Lopez says something in agreement, maybe. He’s there now, standing right behind you, with impatient-looking body language. Your knowledge of high school Spanish picks up the word “olvidó,” which you think means ‘forgot,’ and “pendejo,” which means “thanks, Donut!”

“You’re welcome, Lopez!” You wink at him. “But that’s what I was wondering. I bet he wanted a hostage! For, uh, whatever he was doing with that Meta guy. I wonder if it had something to do with Tucker in the desert. Oh well.” You shrug; it really has nothing to do with you right now. You’re sure the real Grif, Sarge and Caboose are doing their best to help Tucker.

“Maybe that’s why this is bothering you more than the whole thing with Tex,” Grif suggests. “You have no idea why this asshole’s doing this.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t call him an asshole,” you insist, except you kind of just did through your imaginary Grif. Oops. “But yeah, it seems so senseless and mean. Maybe if-I mean, when I wake up I should just talk to him about it!”

The Reds around you freeze in place and the buzzing increases again. They’re all staring at you.

“What? This is the perfect solution! It gives him a chance to apologize. It makes me into the bigger person, although I already am by default right now. And if he doesn’t apologize and tries to kill me again, then I have an excuse to retaliate! Except I kind of already do, but this time I don’t…I mean…”

“Come on, Donut, you’re goin’ in circles.” And Sarge is right, you realize. The hallway curves in a perfect, endless circle. “Just dancin’ around, trying not to come to a conclusion!”

“You can’t dwell on this! We need you to be happy! You’re the one who keeps everyone’s mood up with cupcakes and homemade lattes!” Simmons sounds angry now, even accusatory.   
“If you wake up unhappy, you’re gonna have to depend on us to bring you back around. The real us.” Grif just shakes his head as if disappointed. “I mean, dude, do you really think we’re any good at that?”

Lopez says something about you shaking things off like you always do when you almost die, or he’s wondering if he left the oven on. Your subconscious is having trouble remembering the fine details of Spanish again.

They’re all talking over you, towering over you as the hallway twists and turns, rippling under your feet like liquid. The buzzing is starting to sound much like a roar, and beneath it all that terrible whistling siren you remember from living in Tornado Alley. When you look up at them, their helmets don’t reflect you. They’re just great, black voids, like the night sky but without all those stars that beckoned you.

And then you realize why.

“STOP! Cut cut cut!” You rise to your feet and make an x-out motion with your hands, and as if you’re working with a perfect film crew, everything stops. Even the buzzing falls silent.

You’re still in control.

“That’s not what they’d think! That’s not what they’re like! I should know this! Simmons was so upset when I died I still feel like the first thing I should do when I wake up is send him a message so he doesn’t worry. He makes way more demands on himself than on anyone else, especially me.”

The false Simmons vanishes. By calling to attention what an imperfect shadow of the real thing he was, you banish him.

“And Grif, sure he acts like he doesn’t care about anything, but I saw how he was with his sister! Or how I can tell I annoy him sometimes but he seems to like hanging out with me anyway. Once when I messed up and spilled hair dye on some important documents, he let Sarge blame him instead of me even though Grif doesn’t even dye his hair. I know I can depend on him when it counts!”

And there goes not-Grif, grumbling something before disappearing.

“And Sarge negotiated for my release when he thought Caboose captured me! He really cares in his own, um, his own way! He liked my base decoration ideas and my madeleines. If he found out I had an issue with something he would give me a direction. It might not be the most useful direction, but it’s the thought that counts!”

Does the fake Sarge give you the thumbs-up before he leaves, or was that your imagination?

“And Lopez, well he tries to convince me he’s a big grump, but I know that deep down, if you really penetrate into him, he’s a total softie. I just get the vibe from that guy.”

Un-Lopez calls you a pendejo once more before he’s gone.

And that leaves you, alone in your rookie armor, standing at the door leading to the shuttle that will take you up to those stars.

This dream started so much nicer than the others. Why did it take such a turn? You knew you were upset, so you went out of your way to make yourself happy. You were just trying to undo O’Malley’s damage.

That’s why you’re here, and why you can’t step through those doors yet. You know what’s behind them, and you’re intentionally avoiding it. As the false Sarge said, you’re going in circles.

You can’t use Red Team as an excuse to avoid it. That’s not fair to them. And if it’s not for their sake you’re doing it, then whose?

Oh, of course. Yours. Obviously.

You outright admitted you have a right to mourn your own life, that you deserve to be mourned and cried over as much as anyone else. You don’t hate yourself, have never hated yourself no matter how much anyone ever suggested maybe you should. Sometimes you think you’re the only person on Red Team who doesn’t. But you also don’t want to feel bad.

Is that it? You’re really just afraid of pain? That’s not you. You’ve got more scars than some old veterans. Hell, you are a veteran! You’ve probably been through more than any of the other recruits who waited with you, the ones who tested a lot higher and were sent off to more prestigious assignments. This will be nothing.

That’s what you tell yourself when you step through those doors and your last defenses melt away.


	4. Depression Soaks You Up

You’re crying in a bathtub.

Yeah, that sounds about right.

This is not exactly your first time crying in the bath. Hell, sometimes you intentionally let yourself have a good cry, playing sad music with a wineglass in one hand and a well-worn copy of a novel in the other. That’s one thing you missed on the base in Blood Gulch, which only had a shared shower room with a constantly-clogging drain and the one showerhead that for some reason only worked on Tuesdays. Reading a novel in the shower really isn’t the same. If you do wake up, you resolve to finally check if that new deluxe Red Base at Valhalla has a bathtub.

You’re not really sure when you decided the bath was a good place to cry. Maybe it’s because everything else is wet, so it isn’t like you’re going to soak your shirt. You’re alone, so you never have to explain anything. It just feels nice. Most of the time.

Except this time you’re not crying over fiction, and it feels terrible.

You’re going to forgive him. That’s the worst part of it. O’Malley’s right in that you by all rights should retaliate against this Freelancer who used you as cannon fodder to scare your friend. But you know yourself, and how strange you felt after throwing that grenade at Tex. It didn’t solve anything. 

Having that ship land on you hurt, but you could hear your team doing their very best to free you before you passed out. (Their very best isn’t always all that good, but you love them anyway.) Falling into that cavern led to a lot of interesting discoveries; you had a lot of fun once you recovered from the pain. You were certain you would die crossing the desert to get help for Tucker, but you didn’t, and because of your efforts Tucker is probably safe. You always, always, always found the bright side every time you’ve almost died, which is why it’s so frustrating that this time you can’t.

Then again, maybe you needed to feel this way. Maybe it was high time you mourned all your deaths. And then you can forgive him.

(Why are you so determined to forgive?)

The walls of the white, featureless room shake as thunder rumbles outside. You’re in the bathtub during a storm, which you worry is dangerous until you remember this isn’t real. You’re also pretty sure you know what’s going on in that storm, and who’s in it.

A flash, and you’re crouched in an empty bathtub waiting for a tornado to pass, one that you remember came oh-so-very-close to your family’s farm. There, that was the first time you almost died.

Another flash, and there you are on the ferris wheel, alone this time, gazing down and then forcing yourself to look upward because of the idea you just had. Nobody but you knows it, but that’s the second time.

A flash, and you’re sitting at the desk taking an assessment test, the military trying to gauge if you had the right mentality for the UNSC. You were torn between answering honestly and making up something you imagine a soldiery-soldier would say; in the end, honesty wins because you can’t bring yourself to cheat on tests. Your answers could have gotten you sent to the front lines; instead, they lead you to Blood Gulch. You never realized it until now, but that was the third near-death.

The grenade, the ship, the cavern, the desert, all flash in front of you. You wince in reflex at the explosion, spit out the taste of blood and sand, run hands over the patches of raised skin and scars dotting your body. 

You hate doing this, because it’s looking back. You face the future because even at it’s bleakest, it’s not fixed. There’s brightness there, always will be as long as there’s a Donut. You went to Blood Gulch, not away from Earth. You headed to Valhalla, not away from a desert mission gone haywire. 

But you need to do this. You need to feel this way, at least for a little while, or you won’t forgive Washington. You’ll feel like you did, pat yourself on the back for being the bigger person, but you’ll be lying. And you’ll decide the fake Red Team who need you to smile forever are the real thing, and you’ll blame your increasing sickness on them. You’ve seen it happen, when people won’t let themselves  _ feel  _ real joy or pain.

And you cry a little for them, too. For Sarge, who wants so deeply to win something, who seems to see victory for the Reds as the solution to a problem he won’t talk about. For Grif, who tries so hard to convince everyone he doesn’t care, most of all himself. And Simmons, who’s just desperate for approval from someone, anyone, who keeps acting like he has something to prove. You never understood that. You love them as they are. 

But that’s for them to figure out, not you. They’ll have their own way of working things out, hopefully involving less blood loss and hallucination, and when they do you’ll be right by their side because  _ you aren’t going to die. _

You’re not going to die.

How do you know this? Where’s this feeling coming from? It’s just a sudden certainty, as concrete as when you thought you were dead earlier. There’s no if. You’re going to wake up after this. It’s going to hurt, it’s going to  _ suck _ , but it isn’t going to kill you. And if a bullet to the stomach couldn’t kill you, if everything else couldn’t, what’s a little bit of sorrow every now and then?

You are covered in scars. This is nothing new. Along with the side of your face, you’ve got burn scars on your shoulder on the same side. Mjolnir armor can only protect so much. Your right hand is missing a pinky finger, though you’ve adjusted. There’s nothing on your stomach only because you have no idea what it’ll look like, but you’ll get another one there. Thinking about it reminds you of Madeline, showing off her star-shaped appendectomy scar to awed classmates.

You had Madeline in mind when you first looked at your face post-grenade incident, tried to reconcile it as your own. (It looked a lot worse then, and you spent more time than was necessary trying to conceal it with makeup. Why did you care? Simmons is a cyborg, Grif is part-Simmons, Sarge has tattoos and scars he won’t show anyone and Lopez was just a head for a while. None of you are entirely “intact” anymore. That’s fine.)

So that’s it. You’re going to come out of this, and maybe you’ll be a little different. Maybe something will make you jump the way you startle when you feel a weight on your helmet, or how you’re a little too quick to draw your hand away from machinery. You’ll have to be extra careful when you do your morning stretches. And maybe this isn’t the last time you’ll cry about what’s happened to you, in the past and the present, but so what? You’re allowed to mourn yourself once in a while. You just won’t get mired in it. 

Because who wants to soak in the bathtub forever? That sounds disgusting. It can’t be good for you.

And suddenly it’s gone. It washes out the way cheap soap does, leaving an icky residue in your heart and mind, but you’re not covered in it anymore. You’re doing better. And somehow, you’re not mad at him.

“... _ What _ ?! After all that, you’re not mad anymore? Just like that?!” 

O’Malley is standing over the bathtub, still in his clothes from the date. 

You blush and stand up, dripping wet. “O’Malley! I told you, I’m not interested in doing anything weird with someone who looks like me! Or with someone who lives in my head.”

“You just-anything weird? What? What made you think…” O’Malley finally seems to notice you are, in fact, naked in front of him. His eyes widen, and he stammers. “You-you idiot, I’m an AI fragment memory scar! I don’t even care about-

“Hmph. I know I’m hard to resist, but really. There’s a time and place.” 

“Coming from you, that’s rich,” O’Malley snorts. You’re not sure what he means. 

“Well, if you aren’t here to see me  _ au naturel _ , why’d you reappear? I specifically said I’m not mad anymore. In my thoughts. Which I’d be mad about you spying on, but you kind of are my thoughts, so I guess that’s not really fair, huh?”

“It’s because-oh for evil’s sake, imagine yourself some clothes already! And a decent setting!” O’Malley seethes, turning away from you in a way that’s oddly demure of him.

You think he’s being silly, since he’s the one who dropped in on you, but you comply. You step out of the bathtub, and feel like you’re leaving something behind. 

Then you snap your fingers and you’re in your happy place. It’s a gorgeous club with plastic palm trees, disco music and glittering rainbow lights. There are big grinning purple unicorns painted on the walls with ridiculously huge eyes. You are holding a glass of purple taro boba tea.

O’Malley shrinks back with the expression of a wolf suddenly finding itself in a cage. “What...what pink hell is THIS?” 

“Mine. My big, sparkly, Lisa Frank disaster of a lightish-red Heaven, actually.” You briefly wish you could draw, because Valhalla Red Base would look nice with those unicorns. “You’re in my head, and this is my dream or whatever. And I can’t kick you out, but I can insist you act like a proper guest.” 

“You’re telling me what to do?” 

“Yep! Because you can’t do anything about it, can you? You’re someone else’s memories or, um, something? In my mind. I control this world.” You snap your fingers and the palm trees start dancing. “Like in Sucker Punch. Wait, that was a terrible movie.”

“It was just awful. Why did you even bring it up?”

“I don’t know. And the girl couldn’t even really control what she was imagining! Or could she? Was the whole ‘dance hall’ real, and was she double-dreaming when she was fighting dragons and stuff?”

“It was an attempt at meta-narrative and YOU ARE GETTING SIDETRACKED. On purpose, you devious fiend!” 

You rub the back of your neck. “It’s not on purpose, really! I’m just not sure why you’re so upset that I’m feeling better. I mean I guess it’s because you’re a ragemonster or something? But it isn’t like I’m never gonna get mad again. I bet, I just bet Grif is drinking milk from the carton and putting it back in the fridge as we speak.” 

“There you go again! Getting distracted from your focus! On your  _ enemy _ .”

“How do I know he’ll be my enemy when I wake up? The Blues used to be our enemies,” you recall, “But eventually we teamed up. Against you, specifically. You brought us together, O’Malley! Never even thought about that. Thank you!”

If O’Malley looked like a cornered animal before, now he outright recoils like your boba tea is on fire. “Never, ever say that again.”

“But I get it,” you say, ignoring that. He’ll learn how to take a compliment someday. “You think I’m forgiving him too easily. And I worried about that too. But it isn’t really that I’ve forgiven him. I’m not even sure how I feel about him. I’m just feeling better.” 

This just earns another stare. “How can you feel better without vengeance? Without catharsis?”

“Oh, O’Malley! You’re a fan of traditional narrative structures, aren’t you? You’ve got an inner literary geek. Don’t worry, I’ll never tell.” You wink; he doesn’t seem to appreciate this. “It isn’t like I’m 100 percent now. But I was more afraid of feeling awful than I was of dying. And believe me, I do not want to die! But then I realized I was being pretty silly. About the feeling thing. Not wanting to die makes total sense.”

O’Malley glowers. “ _ Never wink at me again.”  _

You shrug his reaction off. “And I guess I’m used to just touching lightly on things. Not letting them get to me. So I thought if I did, even for a little while, it was some kind of failure. Failure of what, I don’t know! And then I thought if I wasn’t mad I was failing myself too. Except I went through feeling like garbage for a while, and came out fine! Still Donut. I didn’t end up like…”

All at once, you realize you were about to say something awfully insensitive to your AI brain parasite/memory scarring/faint copy/whatever this O’Malley Is, and cover your mouth. “I didn’t mean to imply being like you is wrong! You’re coping with anger the way you think is best, by urging everyone around you to be as furious and violent as possible and sometimes plotting world domination.” 

“I-what? Coping?” O’Malley says the word like it’s foreign to him. 

“And I want you to know I support you! As long as you don’t try to take over the universe, or my brain for that matter. Which maybe you tried to here. I can’t tell. Were you trying to take my brain over?” 

“No. Yes? I don’t know? Damn you!” O’Malley holds his head. “Damn you and your lighthearted, magenta-colored mind games! Your flakiness is corrupting me!” 

“Well, you’re only a little fragment of an AI of whatever that deal was.” Simmons told you a little bit about the whole thing, but you forgot most of it.  “So I bet it’s a lot easier for you to get corrupted than the other way around. Sorry about that!” You mean it, too. 

“Never apologize to me. That’s worse than the winking!” O’Malley shudders and his own form seems to ripple, like he’s struggling to stay intact. “You don’t make any sense. What do you intend to do when you wake up and see him again?”

“If he’s threatening my friends? Um, fight back, obviously. I mean if I’m back on my feet at that point I’m sure I can throw a grenade,” you point out. “But if he’s not? Well, I...don’t know.” 

“And that doesn’t bother you? The fear doesn’t gnaw at you? You obviously have no love or respect for your own dark side, you hate feeling ‘bad’ and ‘angry’ and you just know you’ll want to slap him in the face when you see him.” O’Malley stops himself. “I mean shoot! Shoot him in the face!”

“Maybe? I guess? I mean, I’m not happy. I doubt I’m gonna like the guy at first. And yeah, I thought I’ll probably end up forgiving him sooner or later, and I don’t know what to think about that.” You let yourself rest against the wall of the nightclub that is your Lightish-Red Heaven. Now the walls are starting to flicker too, turning grey and transparent and then reverting back, which is pretty weird. But you’re sort of having a moment here and don’t want to be interrupted. “I just don’t have it in me to hold grudges. I mean, I know it’s kind of your thing...”

You stop, snapping your fingers as it clicks into place. 

“Wait,” you say. “That’s it, isn’t it? Oh, O’Malley. You were lonely!”

_ “...What?!”  _

“You’re trapped here as a remnant in the brain of someone who’s not very like you at all. And since the real you was only in my head for a little while, there’s only an eensy beensy bit of you.” You make a mental note to warn Doc about that as you speak, if and when you ever see him again. O’Malley was in Doc’s head for a while. “And you probably just wanted someone like you, right? Who’s always angry and bitter and lets that define them. Because you said it yourself, you can’t get over it! You can’t ever be more than, um, O’Malley. Or Omega, I guess. You poor thing!”

Your eyes cloud with tears as you clutch at his hands. He stares at you like you’ve just set him on fire. Clearly you’re making progress with him! He’s too shocked by his own revelation brought on by your inner wisdom.

“It’s alright,” you reassure him. “It’s okay that we’re different! I’m not like much of the other guys at all. I guess a little like Caboose sometimes, but Caboose kind of walks to his own marching band. But people with really different outlooks can be friends! We can complement each other’s natures and balance each other out. You can help me stand up for myself and get mad next time Grif tries to say there’s no difference between Earl Grey tea and English Breakfast, and I can restrain you enough that we vigorously correct him instead of wigging out. I can start to calm you and help you cope with your issues in a healthier way, and you can be there for me in times like this when I’m afraid of my own emotions like a weirdo. This is going to work out just fine! We’re going to be the best of friends…!”

You reach over and embrace him in a tight hug. And within your arms he shudders, shouts something incoherent and increasingly digital-sounding, and outright vanishes in a burst of grey light. 

You are not entirely sure what just happened. 

Maybe he’s incompatible with overtures of friendship. Literally incompatible, like the way Simmons talks about some software not running on the base’s outdated computers. You may well have just killed him with kindness, and you have no idea how to feel about that.

There may not be much time to consider how you feel about that, because the walls are starting to break down and turn translucent again. You can see through them to...the sky? It’s the sky, heavily cloudy, tinted a distinct grey. 

And you’re seeing it that way because you are lying on your back, and you’re awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we have what is probably both one of the saddest chapters and the one with the biggest upswing. One more chapter to go! Thank you so much for all your comments so far, by the way.


	5. Acceptance Takes Some Cultivation

You know you’re awake because you can feel your body. You can’t feel it doing anything, but it’s definitely there. It feels heavy and dense, held down by some kind of gravity field, though you aren’t sure you really want to move it if you could. You’re still groggy, your head light and foggy. You lie that way for only a few minutes before a digitized voice blares in your helmet:

“Lockdown mode ended on all units.”

Instantly the veil of gravity is lifted, and without even thinking about it you sit up. Maybe sleeping as long as you did gave you pent up energy and numbed you to your injury, since nothing really hurts much. You can tell something’s off, with an uncomfortably squishy feeling in your stomach. You have a feeling you wouldn’t want to take off your armor and see. 

Your armor, you realize, is absolutely filthy. Nevermind all the mud in the high-humidity grass of Valhalla, which now covers the bottom of your suit; there’s dark reddish-bronze gunk all over your boots. You decry this as you stand up before you can even take the time to marvel that you just stood up, because it annoys the hell out of you. You keep your armor so meticulously clean, treating it so well after you finally adjusted to its not-all-that-soldierly color. 

Your head still spinning, still adjusting to getting back on your feet and feeling yourself in them, you stumble into Valhalla base to wash it off. You’ve got to get those boots clean. Got to get them clean…

Here things blur; looking back, you won’t remember much what happened here. You won’t remember Doc finding you, though he does. Later he’ll tell you he found you chatting to nobody while holding a rag to your boots, not really knowing what to do with it. 

Doc calls this “shock.”

* * *

 

You sleep for a while. You’re disappointed in your inability to remember first waking up in the infirmary to a worried Doc, though he tells you that you did and said something about a handsome prince. He looks awkward when this comes up and mumbles things about “medic-patient boundaries.”

You wake up, eat some instant soup and painkillers, and sleep.

You smell biofoam. You sleep.

There’s a lot of time you just lose this way, always thinking there’s something you’re missing out on, something you needed to tell Doc about. What was it? Was it in your dreams? They’re blurry now, the way remembering a dream always is. When you try to tell him about it you always get sidetracked and remember it out of order. You went on a date with a tornado? You sat in the bathtub with the guy who shot you? No, that’s not right. 

The guy  who shot you...You should ask about him sometime, once you’re spending more time awake than asleep. You mean to when Doc comes in to check your vitals, but instead find yourself chattering happily about planting a garden. A garden? 

You didn’t get enough of that in Iowa? 

“But it’ll be different,” you tell him, “because it’ll be my garden. Well, ours. And we’ll plant whatever we want, like squash and potatoes! And I can make fried squash flowers!” You have no idea how to make those or what they taste like.

“Different from what?” Doc asks, head tilted. 

You hear that question but somehow fail to answer it. “It’s the perfect symbol of rebirth and recovery! Life comes up from the dirt, and when you die you go in the dirt. Or I guess I should have explained that the other way around. Plus the other Reds haven’t made it back yet and there’s absolutely nothing to do here.” 

“Will your superiors care if you dig up the soil around the base?” Doc paused. “I have a feeling the answer is ‘no.’”

“They never complained when Simmons and Grif buried Sarge. Or when we dug a pool.” 

“A pool?!”

“Yeeeeah,” you recall as you lean back in your bunk, “it’s more like we tried to build a pool? On the upside, the Anti-Blue Sinkhole was kind of fun while it lasted.”

Doc considers, and then a smile crosses his lips. Without his helmet he’s a strikingly handsome guy, with big brown eyes and a neatly-shaved head. He wears glasses. You kind of want to ask if he wears them under his helmet. 

“Well, my transport out of here kind of hit a few snags. Or, well, sharp rocks. And maybe the exercise and fresh air will be good for you. But I’m limiting your work hours at first! You don’t need to strain or tear something open. Oh, I bet we could plant aloe vera! And kale! Won’t the Reds be happy to come home to some fresh-baked kale chips?” 

Your heart races. Doc understands you.

“Although aloe vera doesn’t grow in this climate,” Doc mutters to himself as he stands up, pacing as he thinks. And this, you realize, is the perfect time to ask about That Guy. Don’t let yourself get flustered by how cute Doc is when he’s talking about soil acidity. 

Don’t be afraid to feel bad sometimes.

But you’ll bring it up in a comfortable way, just as an aside. You don’t want to ruin the moment. 

“Who was that guy who shot me?” There, see? Subtle.

Doc stops in mid-pace, and you see his eyes widen and his body language stiffen for just a second. “Oh, uh, that guy? Agent Washington, right?” 

“Yeah,” you say, immediately regretting kicking off this conversation. Doc was being cute and now it’s going to get all serious! No way to steer it back to squash blossoms now.

On Doc’s part, he doesn’t catch your regret. He whistles, picking up a roll of medical tape and fiddling with it. “Boy, does that guy have some anger management issues! Like you would not believe.”

You purse your lips. “I think I would.”

“Oh. Right, that probably sounded kind of insensitive on my part. Sorry.” He sighs. “I just had some bad experiences with him myself. But I got this impression he was frustrated. Like something was wrong in his life and he didn’t know how to fix it. People don’t act at their best when they’re desperate. Not that it excuses anything! Just explains it. I have a feeling it wasn’t personal with either of us. We were just a means to some vaguely defined end. Which, I don’t know, makes me feel better.”

You instantly feel a little guilty for thinking you were the only one Washington harmed. Thank goodness Lopez had himself backed up so Doc was able to reboot his head. And if Wash had done anything to Simmons, Doc would have told you by now. 

Doc hasn’t told you much about what happened while you were out because he wants to keep you in a low-stress environment, but he assured you the Reds are safe. You asked it a lot during the fuzzy period.

You tuck your knees under your chin. “Are you mad at him?”

“I can’t say he’s my favorite person right now,” Doc admits with a shrug. “But time heals all wounds. I guess when we see him again…” He immediately freezes as if he said too much. 

“See him again? Is he still at large? Do I need to go rescue Red Team?!” You rush to your feet, and immediately regret it with a shot of pain in your abdomen and a woozy headache that forces you back down. 

“Careful! You’re not 100 percent yet.” Doc holds his hands up to ease you back, a guilty undertone to his voice. “No, Washington’s not a threat right now. He, um, well, they kind of adopted him.” 

You blink. You blink again. “Adopted him? Like-like a cat?”

“He had nowhere to go and the big guy working with him turned on him. He was in bad shape, and Blue Team had just lost one of their own. Something happened to Church.” Doc’s mouth tightens into a line. “I don’t know the details.”

“Something happened to him again? That guy has rough luck. I suppose I’m not surprised they took Washington in with them, though.” You manage a smile. “We’re a big group of misfits and I like to think we’d accept anyone as one of our own!”

For some reason, Doc’s cheerfulness sounds a little false. “That’s certainly true! It seems like anyone could fit in with you guys.” He sneezes, which sounds a little like “Exceptmaybeamedicwhojustwantedtobefriendsbutkeepsgettingditched.” 

“Bless you!” You hope Doc isn’t catching a cold. “You have a really impressive sneeze.”

“Uh, thanks?...Donut, are you okay with this? With them saving him?...Me saving him? I kind of did that, or at least tried to.” Doc is intensely studying that bandage again. “I mean yeah, he was a jerk to me, but that didn’t mean I wanted him to die. Besides, after all the time I spent under Omega’s control I guess I wanted to prove I could still help people.” 

You frown up at him. “What does it matter if I’m okay with it? I mean, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well, after he-and all that happened-I worried you’d feel like it was a betrayal. I mean, I’m not into vengeance,” Doc insists, “but I know it’s sort of a soldier thing. Soldiers who aren’t dedicated to nonviolence.”

You shrug and hope it’s convincing. “If Sarge is willing to let him live, I am too.” Except that’s true. You really don’t have any desire for any misfortune to befall Washington now that you know he’s alive and, presumably, trying to turn over a new leaf.

Okay, if he happens to burn the top of his mouth on pizza, and if ants get into his chocolate milk powder once in a while, and perhaps Caboose throws his light-colored laundry in with the brights and he ends up with nothing but purple socks, you certainly wouldn’t complain. You amend it to ‘no major misfortune.’

“Great! That’s fantastic, Donut! You’re a really forgiving guy.” Doc finally puts the bandage down, exhaling. “That’s a huge weight off my shoulders. Here I was worried you’d go into a panicked relapse when you see him again…”

Oh. Right. 

That’s going to happen.

“Uh, say,” you interject quickly. “Where’s Lopez? We should start planning that garden and I’m sure he’d love to help…”

* * *

 

Agent Washington wears blue armor now, decorated with yellow highlights. Doc is correct. The Blues really did adopt him, like a stray cat that shot you once.

No. You’re fine with this. It’s fine.

Even for someone as brilliant at reading others as you are, Wash is hard to get a bead on. He’s terse and quiet. 

Everyone’s quiet since coming back, even Sarge. Something happened, something they haven’t fully told you about yet. When you asked Grif, he snapped that he didn’t want to talk about it. At least they seem relieved and pleasantly surprised to see you alive. 

Simmons especially seems intent on apologizing to you for...what, exactly? 

“I didn’t know he is-I mean, was-I thought he was here to help! I didn’t want to abandon you but he had me at gunpoint. I thought you were dead! I saw you die!” His voice cracks with desperation. 

“I know,” you assure him for what feels like the ninth time in an hour. “I know! What’s important is that I didn’t die and neither did you.” You place your hands on his shoulders. “You don’t need to apologize to me, Simmons! I mean, you didn’t shoot me.” 

“Yeah, but,  _ he  _ did, and he’s…” 

You both turn to Wash, who is just distant enough that he likely can’t overhear you. Well, maybe. Simmons is awfully loud when he’s stressed out.

“...It’s fine! It’s fine,” you insist. You’re smiling very hard, hard enough that hopefully he can tell through the helmet. “I can’t avoid him forever anyway.”

“Yeah, but it’d be way easier if he wasn’t along with the rest of us. I can be mad at him for you if you want! That’s kind of how I’ve been anyway. I just haven’t said anything or done anything that would attract his attention. But I’m totally pissed off at him on your behalf.” Simmons shakes a fist to prove how serious he is. 

“Well, Simmons, I really appreciate that! But it isn’t necessary. I just need to talk to him. One on one, I mean, when he’s done talking to...Caboose?”

Wash is sitting next to Caboose, who looks absolutely wilted. You’ve never seen him like that. Even after what happened to Church the one time, there was this energy in Caboose that was driving him to do something probably unwise but utterly heartwarming. Now there’s no sign of it. 

You’ve never felt more out of the loop. And you’re usually so on top of gossip! 

You can’t overhear their conversation. Not that you would ever listen in or anything like that. Goodness no. That would be rude. You absolutely would never happen to linger by a thin wall or behind a conveniently-placed tree if there was one nearby. Granted they’re talking in an open field so it isn’t as if you could eavesdrop without being seen anyway. But even if you could, you totally wouldn’t.

But you can see Wash put a hand on Caboose’s shoulder. Caboose covers his face, helmet and all. Wash is so gentle with him. There’s none of the forceful, angry soldier you got little more than a glance at before he shot you down. 

Maybe it’s the blue armor. Light blue is a calming color. 

_Or maybe_ , you remind yourself, _if you can be more than one thing, so can he._

Anyway, they’re having a moment and you’re in no hurry to interrupt it. Everyone’s always so acerbic to one another around here. Heaven forbid toxic masculinity take a vacation for once and allow guys to share genuine emotions and warm feelings. Maybe later you can convince the Blues to join the Reds in one of your sharing circles and really open up with each other. That’d be so good for them. Even Mr. I Shot Donut. Hey, why are they stopping? Wash is looking at you. 

Did you say that all aloud? You did. You totally did. Whoops. Painkillers are just like wine night, but more effective! 

And it provides you the perfect excuse to just apologize for being such a goofball and duck out of the awkward situation, conveniently avoiding the conversation in the process. But that’s not why you’re here. Instead, you clear your throat.

“...Donut. Can we talk?” Washington asks.

“Aww. I had such a good dramatic start to our conversation in mind and you totally preempted me, Agent Washington!” You snap your fingers. You can’t even remember what it was now, gosh darn it. “But sure! Of course, any time. I’m always wide open.”

You are smiling underneath your helmet because you are making yourself smile. It’s not about forcing happiness this time. It’s about courage. You’re giving yourself encouragement, and it’s the only way you can think to do it. Giving yourself a thumbs-up would look silly. 

Wash excuses himself, and Caboose waves. “Thank you, Agent Washington,” Caboose says as Wash departs. “I am still sad but now I’m sit in the sunlight and look at flowers sad instead of do nothing sad. I’m going to watch this bee. Hello, bee.”

The two of you step aside. You take the lead because it feels right, and then turn around, taking a deep breath. You’re going to do this. And you’re going to be nice about it.

“So! I’m glad to see you’re well. And in complimentary colors! That looks so much better than yellow and grey, ugh. So shot anyone lately?” 

Okay, _now_ you’re going to be nice. 

“I...deserved that.” Washington’s voice is low and subdued, not like the sharp, harsh bark he had before. You only flinch a little at the familiarity, probably not enough for him to notice. “Listen. I don’t even know how to begin to apologize for that. To make up for it.”

“I accept flowers, chocolates, written apologies…okay, okay, enough jokes.” Since you can tell Agent Washington isn’t laughing, meaning Plan Donut Makes A Wisecrack And Everyone Laughs and Freeze-Frames isn’t going to work. There’s no way this conversation isn’t going to uncomfortable places. And you’re Franklin Delano Donut! You know all kinds of uncomfortable places! That’s what you tell yourself. 

And then you keep talking. “I guess I just kind of want to know why. I mean, here I thought I might have almost died for no reason. Which I guess happens all the time in war, but not here! It’s not like that here. Like when Caboose blew up Church, it was because he didn’t know how to operate the tank Blue Team got.” 

“You don’t consider that to be for no reason?”

You ignore Washington’s weird question. “But it felt like you killed me for no reason. I mean, I’m pretty sure you knew how to operate that gun. And Simmons trusted you. And when I don’t know something, my mind comes up with all sorts of potentially alarming explanations. But I can’t see inside your head!”

Washington looks away, and there are some long, heavy seconds of silence between the two of you. You feel like you’re supposed to fill it but you don’t have it within you right now. It’s like finally talking to him took as much effort as walking around again after Doc repaired your injuries, and if you keep going on to ease the tension you’ll end up face down in the carrot patch again. You can’t do that. You ate soil. It was gross.

It’s his turn to talk.

Which clearly takes some effort on his part too, since you notice his weight shifting from one foot to another. Something comes out of his helmet muffled.

“What was that?”

“I wasn’t thinking about it.” Washington stops short, his voice catching. “I mean, I was. I had to-I had to convince myself I could do this thing, that I deserved to do it and I deserved whatever came after.”

“You shot me to convince yourself…?” How wishy-washy, you think.

“I was in a shitty place and thought the only way out was to just act shittier. Just sort of give up any pretense of being a decent person because that wasn’t working. And someone who had given that up wouldn’t hesitate to shoot one of the soldiers who screwed him over, right?”

“No, I imagine an awful person would just kind of kill indiscriminately if he was mad.” You never thought much about it. You’re also not sure where he’s going with this.

Washington has his hand over his helmet. “But I was recoiling inside. I hadn’t totally given up, I guess, and some part of me was horrified. So I did the cowardly thing when I saw you. Intelligence told me that Lopez was a robot who could be rebuilt. And I should have been able to shoot Simmons, channeling all the times he annoyed the shit out of me, how the Reds fucked everything up by literally deleting the fucking data on Blue Team, and...I couldn’t do it.” His voice is flat, tired, hoarse. “So I told myself I needed to keep one alive as a hostage. And then when I saw you I thought, thank God, one of those idiots I don’t know.”

The Terribly Heavy Silence returns. You wish there was at least some sad background music like in a show. That way neither one of you would have to speak. Because you have no idea what to say.

“So that’s it. I killed you-I mean, almost killed you because it was both the rotten and cowardly thing to do. And when I found out you were okay I had this whole speech prepared about how I felt, but who the fuck cares how I felt about it?” He stops and just sits down on the grass again, and you follow automatically. “The Director had a lot of reasons to fuck all of us over too, I’m sure. Who cares. He still fucked us over. So...yeah. There you have it.”

You feel like you’ve swallowed too big of a bite and need a moment to help it get down your throat. “So you killed me because you didn’t know me, and that made it easier.”

“Yeah. Sorry.” 

He sounds so weak and miserable saying that last word you kind of want to hug him. But no! No. This is about you. You’re mad right now! (You kind of aren’t anymore.) You need to hold onto that feeling because you deserve it! (It’s just tiring. You’re so tired.)

“...Well, I’ve shot lots of guys I didn’t know,” you finally conclude. “That makes war easier, right? You don’t know the other guys in the cute helmets so they can shoot at you, and you can shoot back. I wouldn’t be able to hurt Simmons either, even if I was mad at him.” 

Washington stops and stares at you. Years at Blood Gulch have trained you to recognize a stare through a helmet.

“I mean, I don’t know how I feel about this. I don’t know if I ever will. But you know what, Agent Washington?” You rest your elbows on your knees and your helmet on your arms, let yourself be comfortable. “I’m kind of tired of thinking about my own death.”

As soon as you say it, it’s real. It’s so real and true you keep going. 

“It’s heavy, you know? I’m not a heavy kind of guy. I mean heavy guys are cute, don’t get me wrong! This isn’t some kind of comment on-okay, anyway, I just kinda feel like I went through the whole feeling crappy about it. And I needed to talk to you to realize...I don’t want to dwell on it right now. I mean, what, was I gotta get an answer I loved? One that made me really happy about what happened instead?”

Washington is still staring, and speaks hesitantly. “I just expected you to punch me, maybe.”

“I totally pictured doing that, but ugh. Nah. Don’t feel like it. I think that maybe I had to ask you? Like for myself. And I was dreading the answer but to be honest, it’s like you said. It doesn’t matter! I managed to survive and ask the guy who tried to kill me why he shot me, and he said sorry, and I have a nice vegetable garden now and everything’s okay. How many guys can say that?” You’re grinning. You’re actually grinning under your helmet because this is a giddy upswing you didn’t expect. “Totally material for my memoirs.”

“Memoirs?...Donut, listen, I-”

“What do you think? I find a lot of memoirs kind of dry. Like blah blah me blah this happened to me blah then this happened and I went to Italy and ate a lot of Gelato. I’m more of a theatrical guy. I could make an autobiographical play.”

Washington’s silent now, clearly stunned by your fantastic idea and creative mind. You’re back on your feet because you feel this energy in you, this rush like a thousand fizzy drinks because holy hell you looked your problem in the eye, you faced your demon and he wasn’t even scary anymore. You still kind of want to hug him. Hug Your Demons.

“Hug Your Demons, I’ll call it! Nah, that sounds more like a self-help book. I mean, I could write  one of those too. Have you met the other Reds? We could totally give some great advice for living. But for this, I bet I could go all artsy. Second person POV, maybe, really immersive. Put you into the shoes of Franklin Delano Donut and his experience with near death.” 

“I’m...I’m very happy you’re able to make the best of it,” Washington says in a flat tone. He’s floored, the poor dear. Of course he is, he’s seeing artistic inspiration happen in real time. 

“I’ll call it…” Your mind blanks, and you sit back down because you’re suddenly very tired and sore again. “Ugh, I’ll name it later. Maybe I can bounce some ideas off Doc and Lopez. Enough about me, jeez. What’s going on with you? Everyone seems so down…”

And you’re ready to listen, not because you feel 100 percent better. You don’t. Not because it doesn’t bother you anymore. On some level it probably will. But you’re alright right now, and you want to help your friends because nothing feels better than that.

You’re Franklin Delano Donut, and you’ve been shot, and you’re okay.

And one day you’re gonna inspire an Oscar winning film.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it took me a while, but I've finished with my Big Bang fic! This chapter was one of the harder ones to write just because so much hinged on the end of it, but I sat down and wrote what felt right to me. This fic was outside of my usual style and probably got a little more personal than I intended it to, though now that I finished it I feel pretty good. I hope you've enjoyed reading!


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